X-Men Iniquity: Deady's Day Out - An XMI One-Shot
by iniquityfic
Summary: "...Bob?...SCAREDY PANTS BOB! HEY! Long time no traumatize!" Everything stopped. Everyone stopped. 'Scaredy Pants Bob', also known as 'Bob' sat, mouth agape, food dribbling down his chin, eyes bulging at the sight of the man he had watched take a full clip to the chest and then fall ten stories to the pavement, a lifetime ago. Oh, Lord, no…oh no...Deadpool was back.


"So there I am, fifth and main, sipping my YooHoo, finishing up a game of 'drunken-hobo tipping', when all of a sudden, BAM...out pops a midget pimp. Yeah. I know. AWESOME. But before I could snap a photo to prove the existence of midget pimps, he says he has a job for me. I'm like, 'WHOOOOA now. Hold up, Li'l Gator. This fine hunk of man-tush is spoken for, and her name is Pinkie Pie.' He assures me no tushies will be harmed in the making of this deal, so I'm game..."

And on it went, that strange disconnected rambling as the bandaged man strolled casually down the sidewalk. He was clothed from head-to-toe. Every literal inch covered by a mismatched assortment of random wear and gauze wrapping. A set of full-body, dark blue coveralls tucked into his knee-high rubber boots. He wore a black hoodie beneath that, evidenced by the hood pulled low over his head. Surgical gloves covered his hands. And, lastly, a bandana wrapped tight about his cancer-ridden face...imprinted with the image of a cancer-ridden face.

The nametag at his breast-pocket read: Thom Cruz.

The name on the battered dog-tags dangling from his neck read: Deadpool.

And he was New York's newest Waste Management Engineer, on break after a particularly successful day of resisting the urge to jump into the truck after each dumped load to ensure Woody and his friends had not been mistakenly thrown away.

Beside him, a cross-eyed, mange-ridden dachshund strolled merrily along, playing the part of inattentive companion as he focused on far more important matters...

A cab pulled up to the curb. Leg lifted and...'mine'. Indeed, the process of ownership extended without prejudice to a great many other things as well: the public waste-bin, the bus-stop bench, the shoe of the old blind guy sitting at the bus-stop bench. 'Mine. Mine. Mine.' It was important work and required the utmost attention...which is why the strange garbage man's rambling went completely ignored by the chipper little mutt. No problem. Thom Cruz seemed not at all dissuaded by the fact. Because he had the best company in the world to hear him out: himself...

So, on they went, Deady and his dog, strolling on down 23rd, lost in their own private little realities as everyone around them tried not to get in the way...

'Mine.'

"The job takes me over to midtown," Deady Cruz was saying, "where apparently some fancy-pants politico has been getting his jollies beating up on the 'hired help'. BIIIIG no no. So we have a chat on how to treat nice hooker ladies and then I leave him with a number to The Lost Boys Eunuch Support Group as an apology for the mess. 'Cause it's nothing personal, ya know? I head out to collect my dues from Little Mister Mini-Bling when who should I see walking down the street...?" A glance down to the dog who was a bit distracted by the butt of a miniature schnauzer at the moment. It's owner opened her overly-applied trap to voice some sort of protest but was quickly cut short as she suddenly evolved into the unfortunate recipient of the story's continuation: "YEP!" Thom exclaimed right into the woman's face, "Big Sal-y! My former trans-gendered land-lord/lady who was apparently still miffed at me for wiring the elevator system to play a mariachi version of Dude Looks Like a Lady! So, now I'm screaming like a little girl as I'm being chased by a two-hundred-plus mass of raging testostrogen down main street. Things DID NOT look good for our hero...they looked kinda floppy...and poorly waxed."

Woman and pure-breed had beat a hasty retreat somewhere amidst the madness and so on the happy Deads went, blissfully content in their early morning jaunt.

"I was just about ready to stop, drop and play Miley Cyrus, as indicated in my Street-Walker Survival Guide, when, all of a sudden, it felt as if I had been surrounded by twenty stinky bodies...because I had been surrounded by twenty stinky bodies. YES! MY HOBO HERD HAD COME! And like a host of dirty angels, they fended off the pinches and spankings of my gender-transitioning assailant. It was a glorious victory and one celebrated for minutes and minutes...until Shorty showed up with the cash and they beat me up and took it to buy booze and women."

Big breath for the moral of the tale:

"And that is why I'm pretty sure I'm lactose intolerant."

Deadpool halted.

Dogpool scratched himself.

Pause.

Both glanced around.

"...where are we?"

It was just about then, stalled there in the middle of the sidewalk, Deadpool's confused gaze landed upon a quaint diner across the street wherein he spied a tiny little sheepish fellow.

"DOGPOOL! LOOK! A TINY LITTLE SHEEPISH FELLOW!"

Snooooore. The mut had slumped to the ground in exhaustion from the day's taxing work.

"Let's go poke him."

And without waiting and without warning, off the two went...ok...well, more to the point, off Deadpool went, dragging his incapacitated hound behind him. A closer glimpse, however, and suddenly the mania of memory placed some recognition to the face. Brows furrowed - "Wait a minute..." His eyes went wide behind his shades.

"...Bob?"

The crazed garbage man made it to the curb and turned quickly to Dogpool.

"Stay!...staaaaaay..." A snore snort in reply and then Deadpool was skipping into the diner, arms wide in greeting, "SCAREDY PANTS BOB! HEY! Long time no traumatize!"

Everything stopped. Everyone stopped.

'Scaredy Pants Bob', also known as...Bob...sat, mouth agape, food dribbling down his chin, eyes bulging at the sight of the man he had watched take a full clip to the chest and then fall ten stories to the pavement, a lifetime ago.

xXIXx FLASHBACK! xXIXx

So, there they were, faces screwed up with intense concentration, beads of sweat soaking their brows.

"You can do it, dude," Bob whispered, beside him. "I believe in you."

Deady drew in a shaky breath. He nodded, drawing resolve from the encouragement...

And then he carefully worked the point of the right needle into the stitch of yarn held taut by the left needle.

"This is gonna be the most badass beanie hat..."

xXIXx WRONG FLASHBACK... xXIXx

So, there they were; Bob stood at the door to the office, dressed in the finest pink bunny outfit Walmart had to offer and sporting a sign that read, "I'M YOUR SINGING BUNNY-GRAM."

She had turned around. Jessica Jones. The woman they had been hired to kidnap.

She had turned around the moment her office window exploded from the force of a butt-naked Wade Wilson falling through it.

Jessica stared.

Bob stared.

It was just one of those moments all of existence paused to give a collective 'Huh?' as Wade groaned to a slow stand. He seemed to shake the daze of his traumatic entry away fairly quick. And then he had a hand covering his lower region and an arm self-consciously crossed over his chest because, "IT'S COLD!"

Snap. That was it. In an instant, Jessica drew a gun and threw out a kick that caught Bob right in his middle and sent him crumpling to the ground in a squeaky whimper. She leveled the glock at Wade.

"WAIT WAIT WAIT!" He instinctively threw up his hands before remembering his nakie predicament and shielding himself, once again. "This isn't what it looks like! We're just here to break in, mess the place up and kidnap you a little bit. NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT."

And that's the last Bob heard or saw off his friend. He heard Jessica unload the entirety of the magazine into his crazy buddy as he beat a waddling retreat back to the elevator. He heard Deadpool's grunts and the sound of his voice fading away as the merc fell back out of the window and out of his life.

xXIXx PRESENT TIME! xXIXx

...

…

xXIXx FLOO POWDER POWER! FLOO POWDER POWER! FLOO POWDER POWER! xXIXx

…

xXIXx Seriously!? C'mon! xXIXx

By this time, the initial shock of spectacle had worn off among the patrons of the small diner.

xXIXx Yes! xXIXx

A definite pervading sense of irritation moved some past Deadpool to the door; others glanced over at the current 'management' where a pudgy looking fellow stood weighing his methods of handling the situation. Oblivious to it all, the mercenary swept on past a few rows and effectively inserted himself right back into poor Bob's life with one word:

"Snickerdoodle."

Blink blink.

No. Wrong word.

"Worthington."

And then a pause, as if that alone should serve enough to illicit response. The merc lounged back, chair leaned back on its hind legs. His fingers threaded through fingers and then slipped 'round to supply cushion for his head. And then his rubber-booted feet found their home atop the table...

"Heard of the guy?"

"Of course, but" Bob was still staring, "This is-...no freakin' way..." He had to fill the space of processing with something. Trembling hands reached out for his cup of coffee. "Is it really you?"

And Deadpool took it all in, his former buddy's processing, the question, and then the cup o' joe straight out of Bob's hands...a few fingers snatched up the edges of stretched bandage and lifted the mask of gauze just enough to reveal a mangled face that had his old friend's eyes widening in horror. Up the drink went to lips that weren't all there and he drank deeply. Maybe a little too deep for the smattering 'some of it' that hit the wrong tube on the way down. Deadpool coughed the coffee up in a wide spray that got both Bob and the hapless couple behind who'd been doing such a good job of ignoring the crazed merc. Cough cough. Sputter sputter. Gaaaaaaaag. The dramatics didn't end there...

The cup went hurled across the room, barely missing an incoming customer (who subsequently turned right around to exit). Up went a hand, waving wildly as his other gripped his throat and he dropped from the seat, down to the ground to writhe there for a little while. Patrons and staff alike stopped dead in their tracks, dead in shock. And then...pause...all was still, yet again…

"...hey...Bob?..." Not even the hint of further distress. Deadpool had apparently moved on. "Come here a sec..." And if the meaning didn't quite click - the literalness of it - he patted the ground next to his prone and contorted body laid out upon the floor, whilst those around slowly started to awaken from the traumatic display.

"I want to talk to you about something."

Pat pat pat.

Bob gulped. "Listen man," he looked around nervously, "Listen, I'm sorry I left that day, ok? That Jones chick... man, she freakin' unloaded on you! It was crazy. I-...I couldn't handle that, man." He couldn't handle this, the sudden, jarring return of his old buddy, his old past. Bob was a different person. No more insane life-threatening mercenary work. He had a wife, a balding spot, a kid on the way. He had a steady job managing an office. It was all awesome because it was all different...safe...consistent.

Bob eased himself gingerly to the floor to sit crossed-legged across from Wade. When it did not look like that was good enough, he went limp and ended up sprawled next to his old companion on the floor.

And then there they were.

Wade had somehow managed to twist one foot back to meet his shoulder, the other's heel hooked the edge of his former seat. Arms were tangled and his head went lost somewhere within the mess. But all was peaceful, all content on the merc's part. He lifted his head, just enough to glance over at his prone friend. And there was a warm and earnest smile played upon his mangled lips at the sight of Bob in such agreeance, so indulgent, of the insanity.

That was a nice Bob.

"Hey. Buddy. I want you ta know that YOU..." Said with a true rallying affection. "Are a complete waste of sperm."

No mean-spiritedness to it. To Wade, there seemed to be a genuine appreciation amidst the musings. And to cap it all off, the mangled Wilson untwisted an arm enough to drop it on the guy's knee. "Yes. If this," and a wave of that hand indicated 'life', 'the world', "were all some grandiose fanfiction written by random people on a forum board...you'd probably be written by a call-center representative on his lunch break."

"I guess what I'm trying to tell you is-..."

"I like you, Bob..."

More pat patting on the knee.

"You're my kinda guy."

By then, the shop had emptied of it's customers. The staff were locked away somewhere in the back. And from those confines, the sounds of panicked murmurings into multiple phones; something about a 'mad man'. Deady released himself from his own jumbled mess of body parts and rose, dusting himself off.

Sirens blared from not so far off.

"So, what say you go buy me a chimi and we talk about this whole you sacrificing yourself for the greater good of me, dealie?" Big smile. "I'll even let you carry sleepy Dogpool!"

A minute later, Bob walked out of the diner at his old friend's side, staring dazedly ahead, mind a whirling mess. Comprehension had gone a long time ago. There was only the dream-like haze of semi-understanding; snippets of facts:

Deadpool was alive...

Deadpool was interested in the Worthingtons.

"What's with the dog?" He murmured distractedly before immediately regretting the momentary lapse of judgment. Rule Number One: never ask Deadpool anything...ever.

Because...

Deadpool's eyes glazed over in hazed, over-the-top remembrance...

"I remember it like it was yesterday..." His voice was low and an appropriate gravely mumble. "...'cause it was yesterday. I was walking the beat, down in Chinatown, munching on some 'mallows, checking the occasional sewer drain for anthropomorphic turtles...when BAM! NINJA ATTACK!...it could also have been an old Chinese Grandma selling chickens, but either way, with hands and cheeks filled as they were with mallow-y goodness...I was CLEARLY outmatched."

At this point, they'd reached the slumbering mut.

"Things looked bleak...and Oriental and short and a bit over-priced, considering the size of the birds...when, all of a sudden, out of the misty smog, he came...WOLFGANG PUCK...I DON'T KNOW WHO THAT GUY IS. But Granny Ninja seemed excited. So, while she was busy getting an autograph, I decided it was time to get home. That's when I found this guy on the side of the road, all beaten up and owner-less..."

And Deadpool held up a knotted old leash to indicate...the leash.

"Seemed like a waste of a perfectly good strap. Feel that." And he handed the thing over to Bob. "That's Grade-A harnessing quality, there, my friend! So, I took it home, cleaned it up and then grabbed the first dog I saw so I could give it a good try." Deadpool grinned, staring lovingly down at the leash in his hand. "We've been inseparable ever since."

"...except when I go out sometimes to kill people for money or go grab a pizza."

"OH hey and speaking of stuff, after the chimi, I'm gonna need your pants."

So surreal. And so strange how Bob felt almost comfortable in the moment as he hoisted the dog in his arms and followed after his old friend, like nothing had ever happened. As if the years had been a day. Already Bob's mind was cycling through his wardrobe, figuring the best expendable pair of jeans to 'loan' his friend.

Deadpool was back…

There was a job. The Worthingtons...he'd need to get some time off from work...

Deadpool was back...

Bob's eyes widened, sudden dawning horror at the reality of the situation...his life, his hopes for the future...oh, Lord, no…oh no...

Deadpool was back.


End file.
